


And in the Dark, I see Your Light

by Chiyume



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Bunker Sex, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time, Clothed Sex, Developing Relationship, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Guilt, Guilty Castiel, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean, Injured Dean Winchester, Kissing, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Near Death Experiences, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, half clothed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiyume/pseuds/Chiyume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hunter's life is not a safe life, and ever since Castiel became human, healing for the brothers doesn't come as easy anymore.<br/>So when Dean is brought back to the bunker after a hunt gone wrong, his life seemingly hanging in the balance, Castiel is not taking it very well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And in the Dark, I see Your Light

**Author's Note:**

> Re-written version of an old fic of mine. Improved grammar and wording. I hope you'll like it :)

 

* * *

 

 

Sam is the one who helps him into the bunker when they get back.

It’s an ungraceful and clumsy journey from the car to the front door, but somehow they manage it without toppling over. Sam only lets go of him for a moment, but Dean’s not sure if it’s to close the car doors or to dig up the bunker key from the inner pocket of Dean’s jacket.

He can hear Sam talking to him; short, obscured assurances that Dean’s barely able to make out through the blur inside his head. Sam hoists him back up—practically slings him over his ginormous shoulder—and the door slams shut behind them as they stagger inside.

Sam’s hands are warm, and Dean can feel the fingers dig into his side through his jacket as his brother struggles to get them both down the curved metal staircase in one piece.

His brother. His Big Little Brother…

They make it down, somehow—he has no idea after how long—and Dean sags into the chair Sammy lowers him onto when they reach the war room at the bottom of the stairs.

He can feel his head loll back, heavy and limp, and his eyes squint at the ceiling above him in a state of dazed detachment. He knows that he has to keep them open. That no matter what happens next, he has to keep them _open_.

Somewhere distant he hears a heavy thump, followed by the sound of pages spilling onto the floor.

He knows without looking that Castiel is now standing in the doorway to the library, and that one, sudden realization sends something sharp and painful twisting up through his chest.

He wants to tell Sam to get Cas out. Wants to yell at him for letting the other even see him like this in the first place, but when he draws for the breath that’s supposed to push the words from his lungs, he can’t seem to gather enough air to fill them properly.

He hears Castiel’s voice; warm and familiar, yet far tighter than it should be, as it addresses Sam from the doorway. Sam answers with quick, strained sentences that Dean only perceives as jumbled sounds; as if he’s listening to Sam talk through the end of a long metal pipe.

Something cold and hard presses against Dean’s mouth, and he opens up obediently and drinks.

Water. Not whiskey. An old, distant part of him feels a bit let down by that, but another, more assertive part pushes the disappointment aside as the water flows down his numb throat. Swallowing is difficult, even harder than breathing, but he knows he must have succeeded when Sam removes the glass from his lips.

Liquid.

He knows that drinking is essential, but for the life of him, he can’t remember why.

His head hurts, he’s aware of that, but there’s a different, more insistent ache coming from his left side that throbs and pulses along with his heartbeat. He tries to sit up, suddenly filled with the urge to _see_ , but when he does his vision fills with dancing dark spots, and Sam immediately pushes him back down into the chair again. Dean can feel the shake of Sam’s hands as they clasp around his shoulders, and ignoring the voice inside his head that tells him not to, he closes his eyes. The dark behind his eyelids feels like an instant blessing. Having his eyes closed is so much nicer than keeping them open. Why hadn’t he closed them before?

The world around him grows muffled. It feels good, more comfortable and he breathes out; a long, heavy sigh that reminds him of a cool shower on a hot summer’s day. How nice wouldn’t it be to stay like this…? To simply remain here, with Sam by his side and this blanket of quiet darkness that’s slowly lowering itself over him. How nice wouldn’t it be…?

The timbre of Castiel voice sounds like it’s coming from far, far away when the other speaks again, but this time it carries a sharp edge of panic that slices through the dark and shatters the walls of building silence when it reaches Dean’s mind. It’s a sound that brings the clench back to Dean’s chest, like a hook that drags him back, and up, up towards the lights and the sounds once more.

The pain returns, sharper and brighter than ever when Dean breaches the surface of whatever sea he had been sinking into, and Castiel’s voice sounds like barbed wire inside his head as he demands to be told what happened. Dean doesn’t hear Sam respond, and he want’s to tell Cas that it’s not his brother’s fault.

Sam doesn’t have any answers. He can’t have, he wasn’t there. Dean’s not even sure himself what happened. One moment he was standing, gun in hand and steady like a mountain. The second after that, the world got flipped upside down, and then Sammy was half carrying, half dragging him into the backseat of the Impala, cursing and dripping wet from the rain outside. Or had it been blood?

What had they been hunting again?

Pain flashes through his side, past his lungs and into his skull when something wet presses against his ribs, the sharp smell of disinfectant stinging his nostrils and making him gasp for air. He realizes with a faint throb of confusion that Sam is cleaning his wound — when did he get a wound? — and he forces his eyes open, the world around him overwhelming his senses when the light cuts into his vision.

The room is swimming in and out of focus, but he sees the familiar mess of long hair that’s kneeling by his side, and even though he doesn’t like the tight look on Sam’s face as he fiddles with the sewing kit using his free hand, the sight of him still feels strangely relieving.

It’s not until Dean raises his gaze that the pain comes. It explodes like a fist to his face, rattling him to the bone when his brain registers the fact that Castiel is still standing frozen and unmoving in the doorway to the library, an abandoned book lying splayed open by his feet. The weight that settles in Dean’s gut when he sees the look in those once so familiar eyes is worse than any blood-soaked injury in the world.

Cas is pale. The dark rings under his eyes stands out in sharp contrast to the current, alarming ashy color of his face, making him look almost sick. Even though he’s been human for a while now, Castiel still has trouble sleeping. Memories of things older, and more sinister than anything the human race could ever imagine surfaces to roam through his head almost every night, causing nightmares cold and evil enough to bring even the most fearless of men to their knees. He’s wearing the same washed out t-shirt and old sweatpants that he had when Dean and Sam left, but what had looked so domestic and comfortable this morning now looks rundown and trashy. As if had it not been for the threads of fabric holding the garments together, the human beneath them would be falling apart in pieces. He’s staring at the spot where Sam’s fingers are pressing the now soaking red towel against Dean’s side, and Dean realizes with a remote sense of recognition that the former angel looks absolutely terrified.

Dean decides that he hates that look. To the very core of his being, he _hates_ it. He doesn’t want to see that expression on Castiel’s face; doesn’t want it to exist there for even a moment. It makes him literally _seethe_ with anger, but the wave of unrestrained rage he feels building against that look instantly crumbles and falls apart from the sudden slash of pain that sears through him when Sam removes the towel from his skin. He hears Castiel wince; a broken, painful sound that rips into his soul and settles there like an inky black weight. The knowledge that it’s his condition, his _fault_ that created that sound makes Dean want to claw his own lungs out.

“Cas…”

He can’t yell, and the name leaves his lips in barely more than a whisper. It’s still enough to snap the attention of Castiel’s eyes up to meet with his, the once so bright blue that Dean had found himself lost in so many times now clouded like a sky filled with rain. The sight of them scares him, more than anything he’s ever thought possible. He opens his mouth, straining against the fog inside his head; fumbles for the words as they tauntingly dance out of his grip to leave him with nothing but empty, ragged breaths.

He want’s to tell Cas that it’s going to be fine, that it’s not that bad, not really, but he can’t. He want’s to tell him that Sam knows what he’s doing, that Sam will have him back on his feet in no time, but Castiel’s face makes the reassurances stick in his throat, clogging it up so hard it feels impossible to even breathe. He want’s that frightened look gone, the sight of it making him feel sick. He wants the crooked little smile back, wants those orbs filled with summer sky to look at him like they always had, wants to feel the comforting weight of that strong hand on his shoulder…  

He reaches out, not sure if the feeble movement of his hand is made in plea or demand, but Castiel sees it nonetheless. Dean watches the horror on the other’s face shift to give way for something else, but he doesn’t get enough time to recognize what it is before the first, rough pull of needle and thread through his skin tear his consciousness apart.

The room keels over, and his arm falls limp to his side. Shadows, thick and black like demon smoke wrap around him from the inside, curling dark tendrils into his vision. His eyelids slide shut, and as the shadows take him, the broken sound of Castiel’s voice calling his name chases after him like a solar flare through the darkness.

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

When he wakes up he’s lying on his bed, shirtless and with the covers pulled up all the way to his neck. The only light in the room is coming from the lamp on the bedside table, but even that is bright enough to sting his vision when he squints his eyes open.

He lifts the covers to discover that there is an enormous band aid patched across the left side of his ribcage, and as he inhales he feels the skin beneath it stretch and pull uncomfortably. There is another gauze patch attached to his left temple, and the dull ache in his head seems to originate from whatever injury lying beneath it.

It takes him a few disoriented seconds to remember where he is before the memories slam into his brain so fast they leave the room swaying around him. The Lamia…! And the stairs… His hand goes to the wound, the phantom feeling of claws ripping into his side suddenly all too vivid. Sammy must have killed the bitch before he dragged Dean back to the car, there’s no way they would have made it out alive otherwise…

He takes his time sitting up. The stitches underneath the patch pulls at his skin when he moves, and he drags his legs over the edge of the bed and drops his feet to the floor with a wince. He looks around, taking in the bloodied pieces of cloth peeking out over the edge of the trashcan next to his desk; silent witness to the fact that someone has switched the wrappings around his wound at least once already. Lifting his gaze he also notices a blanket—which he’s sure hadn’t been there before—lying draped over the chair on the other side of the room. Someone’s been sleeping in here while he was out, and something in his gut tells him that his brother is the culprit.

Jesus, how long has he been out?

There is a pitcher of water and a glass on his bedside table, and he drinks from it until the pitcher is almost empty before he even attempts to stand up. His watch shows that it’s almost two o’clock in the morning, so he’s not surprised to see the lights in the corridor dimmed when he opens his door to step outside. For a moment he contemplates going back to sleep for a few more hours, but the hunger inside his belly is literally trying to claw it’s way out of him, and he needs to get something to eat—preferably ten hours ago.

The door to Sam’s room is open when he walks by, but Sam himself is nowhere to be seen. Dean limps his way out into the map room, throwing a quick glance into the library as he passes, but with the same vacant result. When he finally enters the kitchen he finds his little brother slumped over the kitchen table—a plate of half eaten takeaway food and an open book by his side, snoring like a hundred buzz saws.  

“Hey… Hey Sammy…”

He shakes his brother’s shoulder. He’s actually trying to be gentle about it, but the light touch is still enough to send Sam’s book plummeting to the floor along with his fork when the taller man jerks awake. Dean has to stop himself from laughing at the sight of ruffled hair and the wild, bleary eyes that turns to stare at him in bewilderment once Sam realizes what’s happening.

“Multitasking only works when you’re awake you know,” Dean offers with a grin. The sentence barely makes it out of his mouth before Sam’s arms wrap around him, pulling him in for a hug that makes the air rush out of his lungs with a strangled squeak.

“Sam…!” he wheezes, “Wounded soldier, remember…?”

“Oh…!”

Sam pulls back, a sheepish grin on his lips. His hands are reluctant to let go of Dean’s shoulders when he takes a step back, as if he’s afraid that his older brother is going to vaporize into thin air the moment he does.

“Sorry, man,” he apologizes. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Dean answers immediately and Sam chuckles, nodding in agreement.

“Well, that’s not very surprising,” he says, already moving towards the fridge. “You haven’t eaten in almost three days.”

“I’ve been out for three _days_?” Dean chokes. Sam shakes his head as he reaches into the fridge and pulls out another serving of plated takeaway food. Closing the door with his hip, he then turns towards the microwave.

“Only two and a half, thank god,” he says with a relieved sigh. “You lost a shit ton of blood and blacked out while I stitched you up. You’ve been out ever since. To be honest I don’t know what I would have done if you’d still been unconscious by morning...” he ads, like an afterthought.

“Yeah, I guess I freaked you guys out pretty bad, huh?” Dean chuckles, and Sam lets out a strained little laugh, opening the microwave door.

“Well, at least one of us,” he mumbles under his breath.

Dean’s brow furrows.

“Why, what do you mean?”

“Nothing, just… It’s good that you’re awake again, that’s all.”

There is a subtle, almost unnoticeable clatter when Sam places the plate inside the microwave before turning the timer on to heat the food. It’s a tiny slip, barely worthy of mention, but Dean doesn’t miss the way the smile won’t reach his brother’s eyes when Sam turns back around. In that moment he _knows_ —knows it like a bird knows which way is south—that something’s not right.  

“Sam, what’s going on?”

For a moment he thinks that Sam’s not going to answer him, and he feels something thick settle in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He takes a slow step forward, that horrible sensation of ‘ _wrong’_ creeping up his spine like ice on a frozen water pipe. Sam’s shoulders slumps, and the cheerful mask falls away from his face so fast it makes Dean’s heart clench, revealing the exhaustion that had been lying hidden underneath it.

“It’s Cas,” Sam says silently. Dean forces himself not to react to that, fighting the violent lurch in his gut that the tone of Sam’s voice brings forth.

“What about him?” he asks, hating himself for the tremble that manages to sneak its way into his voice as he speaks.

“It’s bad.” Sam shakes his head slowly. “I’ve never seen him like this, I— I don’t know what to do, and he won’t even talk to me…” He looks up at Dean, and Dean pretends that he doesn’t see the careful evaluation he meets in his brother’s eyes. That look had always carried a question that Dean was not prepared to answer, and he looks away, leaving the question unrequited like he always does. He hears Sam sigh; a tired sound that he has heard more and more often ever since Castiel came to live in the bunker with them, and like so many times before, he shuts it out.

“Dean…” Sam says slowly. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asks, ignoring the ice cold lump in his gut to the best of his ability when Sam takes a cautious step forward. Sam reaches his hand out, slowly, as if Dean’s a spooked animal which he expects to flee at any second.

“Listen,” he says. “I don’t know what happened, but when we got back and he saw you, something must have snapped.” He moves his hand, motioning to the doorway leading to the entrance of the bunker. “One moment he was standing there, looking at you, and then he was just _gone_.”

It takes a second or two, but then the floor appears to liquefy beneath Dean’s feet. The room around him begins to spin when Sam’s words make impact with his brain.

“He left…?”

Sam is looking at him again, pain and something that’s far too close to pity in order to make Dean feel comfortable swimming in his eyes as he shrugs helplessly.

“I have no idea where he went,” he confesses. “I was still needling your skin together when I heard the front door slam shut. He came back late last night, but he still won’t say anything. He just… sits in his room with the door locked. He hasn’t come out to eat, and he won’t answer when I try to talk to him.”

Dean’s hand somehow manages to locate the back of of a chair. He feels the wood dig into the palm of his hand as relief beyond proportions washes through his system, threatening to make his legs give out beneath him. He came back. Cas was still here, in the bunker, thank God…

Sam’s hand settles on his shoulder, firm and reassuring, and the touch if it helps him find his balance once more.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, worried. “Is it the stitches?”

The weight of Sam’s hand feels like an anchor, but Dean throws it off with a reluctant shake of his head nonetheless, waving him away.

“I’m fine, Sam. I’m just… a bit dizzy, that’s all.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

It isn’t really a suggestion, which becomes evident the very next second when Sam gently steers him down into the chair. Sam’s grip around his arm supports him as Dean settles into the seat with a strained grimace. The stitches are still pulling underneath the band aid and he feels weak—not only in his legs, but all over his body. His lungs simply won’t expand to take in enough air, and his head is heavy and filled with mist that makes thinking impossible. The only thing that feels strong is the frantic beats of his own heart, which echo through his body and ring through his skull like the chimes of a giant bell, leaving his limbs rattling with the sheer force of it.

Cas had left… Dean had been _injured_ and Cas had _left_!

Left to return, of course, but that knowledge is of little comfort. It makes Dean feel like he’s been betrayed; as if Cas deliberately left him to die in a pool of his own blood, and that thought _hurts_. Why had he left in the first place? And what caused him to come back? Had he even planned to come back in the first place?

“So he’s here?” he mumbles, because he needs to hear it, needs to know for sure.

“Yeah,” Sam mumbles back. “I’ve heard him shuffle around in there, but he won’t come out. Sometimes he talks to himself…” he adds carefully, and oh, how Dean wishes that he wouldn’t look at him like that. As if he’s scared that the information will somehow break him.

The microwave chimes; an inappropriately, cheerful little ping that makes Sam’s jaw twitch. The look he sends Dean when he gets up to retrieve the plate is apologetic.

The food is welcomed, but Dean doesn’t register much of the taste as he chews it. His thoughts are somewhere else — more specifically down the hall where Castiel’s room is located — and they both spend the rest of his meal in silence. Afterwards, Sam ushers him back to bed before Dean even has the chance to voice a protest. Even if he doesn’t like the idea of going back to sleep before he’s had a chance to talk to Cas, he still goes willingly, because even _he_ knows better than to tangle with Sam when half his belly is literally in stitches…

Tomorrow, he thinks. He’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.

 

/\/\/\/\/\/\

 

“I’m still out here you know.”

Dean holds his breath, waiting for a response— _any_ sort of response—from the other side of the firmly closed, and above all, _locked_ door.

“C’mon man, open up.”

There’s a brief noise, as from someone standing up inside the room and Dean tenses. He waits for more, but nothing else comes. For fuck sakes, what else does he want him to do? It’s been almost twenty minutes and the only thing Dean’s managed to squeeze out from Cas so far is a muffled ‘go away’. He leans against the doorframe, a low thump reverberating through the wall when his forehead connects with the wood. Really, when Sam told him that he had tried everything to get through to Cas, Dean hadn’t really expected him to mean _everything_!

Offering food was a no-go, having all been met with the predictable ‘I’m not hungry’. All sorts of bribery had so far lead into a dead end of silence, and threats only seemed to have made matters worse. As of now Dean’s been resorted to coaxing, balancing dangerously close to the brink of begging, and Castiel still hadn’t given him more than half a sentence worth.

If the other’s behaviour hadn’t been so fucking annoying, it would probably have gotten Dean worried.

Two months had past since Cas showed up to live with them in the bunker; wearing some hobo’s old hand-me-downs, covered in dirt, wet, hungry and in every aspect human . Not even then, graceless and reduced to a shattered piece of his former self, had he done anything like this. Dean had expected depression, tantrums, withdrawal, denial, anger, hurt, panic—fuck he had expected anything but the calm, collected, _logical_ person who had moved into the room a few doors down from his.

To tell the truth, it was almost suspicious how easily Castiel had taken his new, human way of living. Eating had seemed like a pleasant surprise, as had the need for showers. He had stepped in and taken charge of the laundry, the shopping, the cleaning, and everything besides cooking within the span of less than three weeks; as if it had been his self proclaimed right to do so. Not once during all that time had he shown any signs of freaking out about the loss of his grace, or the fact that Heaven was now angel-less. So why this behavior all of a sudden? What the hell was _going on_?!

“Damnit Cas, I just wanna ta—”  
The soft click from the lock cuts him off mid sentence. He jerks back, expecting the door to swing open and hit him in the face, but it doesn’t move as much as an inch. Instead it remains nerve rackingly silent, and still tightly shut in front of him.

He narrows his eyes at it, waiting, but nothing else happens. Licking his lips he eventually decides that since it’s the closest thing he’s gotten to an invitation so far, he might as well act on it before Castiel decides to take it back. Trying to keep his pulse under control he reaches out, grabs the handle, slowly presses it down, and opens the door.

In his head, he had been expecting there to be clothes strewn across the floor. Maybe a book or two peeking out haphazardly beneath heaps of papers on the desk—Jesus, even a dirty sock would have been welcomed—but the room that meets him when he opens the door is nothing less than spotless. No dirty laundry, no books, no research papers… The only thing that looks even remotely disturbed is the still-made bed, and even that doesn’t seem to have been subjected to anything but perhaps a brief sit-down.

Is that what Cas had been doing in there for the past two days? Did he walk in, lock the door and then just _sit down_?

Dean swallows, with enormous effort. It takes a discipline beyond that of his normal strength to raise his gaze enough to look at the man standing with his back towards him in the center of the room. He recognizes the sweatpants and the shirt from the day he and Sam had left for the hunt, and the sight bring a violent stir to the pit of his stomach. If there’s one thing Castiel _hates_ , it’s wearing dirty clothes. Since becoming human, he always showers every day, sometimes twice, just because he can. The fact that he’s apparently been wearing the same clothes now for three days straight sets off an alarm in the back of Dean’s head that blares louder than a fog horn, causing red lights to flash through his skull like fireworks on the fourth of July.

He clears his throat, announcing that he’s now inside the room, but Castiel doesn’t move.

Jesus, it’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to think ‘scary’. ‘ _Scary_ ’ is a far too sensitive description for the emotions he’s having about this whole situation, and when he licks his lips he finds them dry and stiff beneath the dry rasp of his tongue. He draws a breath and holds it for a moment, trying to decide what to say, only to realize that he has absolutely no idea. To tell the truth, he hadn’t even expected to get this far, and so his mouth closes, having not produced a single sound.

Castiel still isn’t moving.

His shoulders are squared, his back rigid, and his posture strung tight. Like a steel spring ready to snap. He keeps staring at the wall as if it’s holding some sort of secret that only he can see; some divine truth that he has no intention of sharing with anyone else, and suddenly Dean feels rage rise within his chest. Hot and blazing like the molten core of a volcano.

What the hell is the bastard’s _problem_ ? Dean’s the one who almost got his guts ripped out! Fuck, he almost _died,_ and here’s this bastard, acting as if _he’s_ the one who should be given all the attention! And what’s the whole deal about locking himself in his room, refusing to eat or talk to anyone, like some kind of emotional teenager? For God’s sakes, it’s like dealing with another adolescent brother all over again! Who the fuck does he think he is?!

“You planning on sulking around in here much longer?” he snaps before he can stop himself, but predictably, nothing happens. Castiel isn’t acknowledging him any more than he did before he spoke, and the fact that Dean finds himself having _expecting_ that kind of response makes him even angrier.

“God dammit, _look_ at me when I’m talking to you!”

He moves before he even knows himself what he’s planning on doing. His fingers close around Castiel’s upper arm like a vice, yanking hard and spinning the other around to face him, but the words—those hot, angry, _careless_ words that he had been about to say—dies in his throat when he sees the look on Castiel’s face.

There are red rims around the former angel’s eyes, and his skin has a pale, sickly tone to it that makes Dean wonder how the other can even possibly be standing. His hair is tousled and disheveled, strands of it falling down over his forehead to hide the dulled color of his eyes. When Dean’s gaze travels down, he sees that the other’s hands are balled into fists by his sides.

‘Scary’ suddenly doesn’t seem enough to describe the situation anymore.

“Cas…?” He reaches out, tries to place his hand on the other’s arm again, but this time Castiel flinches as if Dean’s touch is a whitened branding iron which will burn him if it gets to close. Dean takes a step back, his heart suddenly speeding like a runaway train inside his chest

“Alright, what the hell is going on here?” he asks tightly, but Castiel doesn’t move. Dean can see the other’s jaw working, sees the flex of his throat when he swallows, but there’s still no reply.

“Sam told me you disappeared the other night,” Dean tries instead, inclining his head to force Castiel to meet his gaze. “Care to tell me why?”

Castiel’s shoulders pull up, defensive and humanly instinctive. The apathetic glaze of his eyes clears momentarily to give way for a spark of panic when he turns his face away, hiding.

“I couldn’t stay…” he mumbles, his voice barely above that of a whisper, and Dean blinks, slowly.

“Excuse me?”

“I couldn’t stay,” Castiel repeats, just a bit louder. “I—” he cuts himself off and looks around the room as if he’s just remembered something important that he forgot to do; eyes darting over the floor and the walls, looking at everything but Dean’s face. He doesn’t say anything else, and Dean’s jaw clenches. His teeth clamps down hard on the insides of his cheek in order to keep himself from exploding on the spot.

“Alright,” he says instead, frustration fueling his word. “Then how about you tell me why you decided to set up camp in here like some god damn hermit, even though Sam clearly could have used your help out there before.”

He tries to not make it sound like an accusation, but Lord forgive, him he can’t help it, and his voice grows sharper and more acid with every syllable that leaves his mouth. Each one seem to cut into the other man like razorblades, making Castiel flinch where he stands, but still the other man says nothing.

“For fuck sakes…” Dean groans, momentarily burying his face in his hand before dragging his fingers back through his hair, pulling at it in exasperation. “You can’t even man up enough to tell me, can you?”

“Dean…“

“No, you know what, I don’t wanna hear it.” Dean straightens up, shoulders square and defensive. “If you wanna keep your secrets, fine, but don’t you fucking _stand there_ and expect me to just swallow your bullshit out of _courtesy_!”

“Dean, you don’t understand—”

“You damn right, I don’t understand ,” Dean snarls. “I don’t understand a goddamn thing about any of this, so how about you fucking _enlighten_ me!”

“You were _dying_ !” Dean flinches when Castiel yells at him, his voice suddenly raw and laced with pain. “You were _dying_ and there was nothing I could do. I had to stand there and watch you _bleed_ to death while Sam did his best to stitch you up, and I couldn’t _stay_ , Dean, I _couldn’t_!”

“So you thought running away would somehow make it all better?!” Dean spits back, his voice rising to match the volume of Castiel’s own. “You seriously thought leaving Sam to take care of me, all by himself, would be such a _brilliant_ idea?!”

“Sam was doing fine,” Castiel snaps, but Dean can tell that he doesn’t believe the words himself, and that makes his anger spike even higher.

“He wasn’t _fine_ ,” he snarls. “He had his hands full trying to keep me _alive,_ and then on top of that you just took off and left!”

“I came back.”

“No you didn’t,” Dean growled. “You just went from hiding your sorry ass in one corner of the world to another. For Christ’s sake, do you have _any_ idea of how worried he’s been about you?”

Castiel blinks, his jaw falling slack, and it strikes Dean then, like a slap to the face, that no, no, Castiel _doesn’t_ have any idea. Castiel doesn’t have a goddamn _clue_ …!

“You’re telling me you thought he wouldn’t care?” he gapes. Something in Castiel’s eyes that Dean can’t name lights up at that, just for a second, only to go out just as fast when Castiel’s gaze drops to the floor.

“I thought it would be easier for him not to have me around…” he mumbles.

“And how the hell would that have made it _easier_?” Dean snorts.

“Because if you died, then it would have been my fault,” Cas hisses venomously. “How could I possible stay here and face him, knowing that the reason his brother’s dead is because _I_ went and lost the only thing that could have saved your life?”

Dean drags for breath, his mind already halfway through a response when the words hits home, and he deflates. Just like that, the last flare of his anger chokes and smothers inside him, like the dying flicker of a candle.

“You thought it would have been your—” He closes his eyes, braces himself with a deep breath before he opens them again and finally, _finally_ , it all makes sense...

Castiel looks ashamed, as if he just accidentally revealed something that he had intended to keep secret for the rest of his life. As Dean watches, the former angel steps back and sags down onto the edge of his bed, head hanging low and shoulders slumped in defeat.

Dean has no idea what to say or what to do; afraid that if he uses the wrong words now, he’ll only end up making matters worse. Instead, he does the only thing he can think of, and sits down on the bed next to the other man, and waits.

The silence that lowers itself over the room is soul crushing, and Dean can feel how it presses itself against the insides of his head to the point where it almost starts to hurt. Castiel is staring down at his own naked feet, and Dean finds himself copying the posture, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he struggles not to breathe too loud. He swears to all things holy that he has never felt this uncomfortable in his _life_.

_It would have been my fault._

_…lost the only thing that could have saved your life…_

_Dean, it’s not your fault, okay?_

Sam had known from the start. Dean should have realized that. His brother had always been good at seeing stuff others didn’t, especially when it came to other people’s feelings. He probably figured it out the moment he discovered that Cas was gone, or possibly when he came back… Not that Cas usually has any trouble with the sight of Dean bleeding, but this _is_ the first time any of them has gotten severely injured since he lost his grace. It’s literally the first time the former angel has been faced with a situation he‘s not able to fix with a simple touch to the forehead or snap of his fingers. When Castiel saw Sam drag Dean back into the bunker, soaked in his own blood and barely even alive… Dear god, the helplessness he must have felt…  

Dammit, Dean should have seen it coming! After all, he had pulled the same scam himself once; popping out of Hell as if he had just been away on a quick vacation; just like Cas had domesticated himself to the bunker faster than any of them had dared to even hope. The difference of course had been that Dean had tried to avoid his shame, and his dead giveaway had been his furious attempts to bury it in alcohol. It’s with a sense of shame that he now realizes that Cas had gone about it all in a completely different way.

From the moment he arrived, Castiel’s been washing their clothes, buying their food, vacuuming their floors… _Repenting_ rather than denying, and Dean feels so horribly stupid for not having figured it out sooner. Damnit, he could have _done_ something! He could have _helped_! If only he hadn’t been so blind, he could have—

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The sound of Castiel’s voice startles him, and he flinches in spite of himself. Castiel is still looking at the floor when Dean glances at him from the corner of his eye. The other’s gaze is not as distant as it was before, and there’s a telltale twitch in his throat that informs Dean that he is struggling to keep his voice under control. Dean looks away again, the sight of that exposed patch of skin making him feel strange in ways he thought he ought to be used to by now.

“You’ve saved my ass plenty of times before, man,” he mumbles. “Sometimes you’ve gotta give someone else a shot.”

There’s no answer from Castiel, and Dean doesn’t dare to look up again in order to see what kind of a face he’s making. For a brief moment he thinks he can feel Castiel turn his head to look at him, and his insides instantly knots up and tightens, his fingers itching to scratch his neck or his chin in order to distract himself from the gaze drilling into the side of his face.

“Perhaps I should just leave…” Cas sighs, voice tired and sardonic. “I’m evidently of no use to anyone in this place.”

The moment the words leave the other’s mouth Dean feels a cold hand reach in and clasp around his heart; the sensation sending icy waves of shock all the way to his gut, freezing every muscle in his body on its way.

“We need you here,” he says, perhaps harder that he intends to, but Castiel’s voice is still dull and desolate when he answers.

“No, you don’t.”

Dean refuses to ask him where he intends to go. He doesn’t want to ask how Cas expects to survive on his own out there, without money, without shelter, because he doesn’t want to risk hearing that Cas already has it all planned out. Because what if that’s what Cas was doing when he went away before? What if he was out there looking for another place to stay? Another _home_?

He hears a faint crackle and realizes that it’s coming from his own hands; his knuckles turning white as his nails dig into his palms so hard they leave deep crescent moons pressed into his flesh. No, he decides. It doesn’t matter what Castiel has planned. Whatever it is, it’s not an option, not as long as he has anything to say about it. It’s not happening—he won’t allow it!

“Don’t say stuff like that,” he orders sternly, but Castiel just sighs and straightens up, turning towards him with a disbelieving scowl. When he opens his mouth the words that come out sounds pleading, as if he’s begging Dean to understand.

“Why not?” he argues, wincing. “Have you _seen_ me lately? Dean, I’m practically useless !”

Something sharp and cold twinges through Dean’s chest, and the realization of whom those words reminds him off leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat. It’s not the same, not really, but with the messy hair and the rumpled clothes the similarities are almost too many to ignore. He grits his teeth, reminds himself sharply that no, they stopped that future from happening. They stopped that _Cas_ from happening, and he’d be damned if he’s just going to sit here and let a ghost from a nonexistent future crawl it’s way back into their lives because of some stupid misunderstanding!

“I said; don’t say stuff like that,” he repeats, harsher this time. “You’re not useless, so stop talking as if you are.”

Castiel swallows. For a split second he looks almost angry, as if the fact that Dean won’t agree with the derogating opinions he has about himself is a personal insult. He turns away with his lips pressed into a thin line, jaw defiantly set, and Dean sighs with frustration. The people who claim that mules are the most stubborn creatures on God’s green earth have obviously never met one of His angels…

Damnit, if only he could make him _understand_ …!

He braces himself as he rakes his brain for a way to express what it is he’s trying to say without actually having to _say_ it. He’s aware of what word he should pick, which one would be closest to the truth, but he only lands on the same old platform as he’s always done, and he knows that the sentence he eventually settles on isn’t going to work before he even says it.

“Cas, I need you to stay.”

“Why?” Castiel grates back without even looking at him. “What can you possibly need me around for?”

There are a hundred different things Dean could answer to that. How Castiel may not have any mojo left, but that he still contributes to their fucked up little family nonetheless, perhaps even more now than he did before. How it doesn’t matter that he’s a human, because Dean and Sam are human too, and they know how to get out of trouble, even without angelic support. He could tell him how even though Cas puts such effort into helping them with the household, it’s still his company that means the most.

He doesn’t say any of it, though, because he knows deep down that those things alone won’t help, and to him that truth is nothing short of painful.

He could confess of course… Come clean, right here and right now, and perhaps manage to stun the other out of the depression he’s in, but what if by doing that, he’d only end up making things worse? What if Castiel doesn’t believe him? What if he thinks it’s something that Dean’s just saying in order to keep him from leaving again, then what?

He’s not worried that the other will be disgusted or uncomfortable with it, that’s not the problem. He’s known about Castiel’s feelings for him for a very long time; after all that’s happened, how could he not? The amount of times that Castiel had put his life on the line – the number of times he actually _died_ – for their sake is something that’s not easily ignored. Sam knows too, of course. That’s why he keeps looking at Dean the way he does whenever they talk about Cas, as if waiting for Dean to pitch in with a confession or something.

So yeah, maybe Dean’s own feelings have grown beyond what he would have thought possible, or even comfortable for that matter, but it’s not as if it had been his idea! five years ago he would never have been able to imagine himself stealing looks at another man’s ass while doing something as ordinary as unpacking groceries. Or make up excuses to stand a bit closer than necessary in order to sneak in a casual touch or two whenever he gets the chance. And he _definitely_ hadn’t thought that he’d be catching himself daydreaming about what the plump lips belonging to that very same man would taste like on his tongue, or how those strong hands would feel if they ever were to touch him, skin on skin.

The first time he realized what the hell he was thinking it freaked him out so bad he had ended up in a bar, smashed out of his mind, and with a hangover so vicious he couldn’t even bring himself to drag his body out of bed the next day. Then, the very first time Cas had made a guest appearance in one of his not-so-innocent dreams, he had woken up, horrified and trembling in the middle of the night with a hard on that refused to go away until he got up and took a cold shower. Sam had woken and asked him what the hell he was doing, and had received a wet motel towel to the face for his troubles.

Dean’s method of handling this new, sudden attraction to his celestial friend has gotten better with time, naturally — not that he will ever succumb to calling it an easy transgression — and by now it has become something he more or less accepts in his daily life, although skittishly. It’s not like discovering this part of his sexuality didn’t have him confused at first, because it did, but he’s actually managed to come to peace with most of it. He’s just not ready to… confess it openly yet. Keeping it a secret is hard though. Having awkward boners in front of your person of interest might be bad enough, but add a meddling baby brother to the mix and you’ve got pure hell on your hands.

He ‘s not ashamed to admit that maybe he hasn’t been dealing with his feelings in the best ways possible; always coming up with a fuck load of ‘if’s, and ‘but’s to justify not acting any of his urges out. Then again, really, what’s the harm in having a little patience? Because if he actually _does_ this thing he’s been thinking of doing for so long, and it turns out to be the famous ‘phase’ people whisper about, then the world will have to come up with a brand new term for the level of ‘awkward’ that Dean will be experiencing.

Nonetheless, here they are, over three years later and as far as he can tell his ‘phase’ isn’t showing any signs of ending anytime soon… He hasn’t done anything about it during all this time, and to tell the truth he’s not entirely sure if he’s actually _ready_ to do something about it either. But the mere thought about Castiel taking off and never returning brings such a freezing cold to his insides that he’s starting to suspect that he’s gonna have to take that plunge real soon, whether he wants to or not.

The memory of Castiel’s voice calling his name echoes through his head, and he clenches his fists. He remembers the cold, and that freezing ocean of pure black, dragging him down and cutting him off from the lights and the sounds. He knows what that dark had been; he had seen it before, but it had looked different then… There had been more pain, more fear... Not the bittersweet silence that had tried to coax him in this time, almost succeeding, and just like last time it had all ended with _him_ . With _his_ touch, _his_ voice…

 _Who would save me…?_ he thinks. _When you’re gone, who’s going to be there to pull me out of the darkness when no one else can?_

“You did save me, you know…” he murmurs under his breath. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have been long gone before Sam even got that damn needle threaded…”

Cas looks up, that same light from before flickering in the depth of his eyes, but when his gaze falls on the band aid on Dean’s face they go dark yet again. He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to rid it of thoughts that doesn’t belong there.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” he mutters harshly. “I fell. I left Heaven in ruins, condemning my brothers and sisters to roam the earth, lost and abandoned, and I—“ His voice breaks, and when he looks up Dean is only slightly surprised to find that there are tears in the corner of his eyes.

“Don’t you understand?” Castiel begs. “Everything I do end in blood and misery! How can you possibly say that you still want me around after everything that I’ve done. After all the _hurt_ I’ve caused?”

Dean looks at him, long and steady while his throat struggles not to collapse on itself.

“We’ve been over this before,” he says, forcing his voice to remain steady. “And I’m sorry Cas, but the answer is still the same. I don’t care what you did. I want you to _stay_ , how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“But _why_ ?” Castiel winces, and there’s a pain in his voice that makes Dean grit his teeth against the unfairness of it all. He knows, then and there that if he doesn’t at least _try_ , if he doesn’t believe enough to place his faith in the feelings he has — in the feelings he knows that Cas has too — then how would he ever be able to live with himself if Castiel really ends up abandoning them?

_Who’s going to fill the hole in my chest if you leave me?_

“You really don’t know?” he breathes. Castiel turns his head sharply, eyes suddenly hard and defensive, but their steely surface breaks into rippling waves of confusion — and perhaps even fear— when Dean reaches out to take a gentle hold of the other man’s wrist. When Dean’s fingers closes around the back of his hand Castiel flinches, his entire body going rigid, but Dean presses on. Promptly ignoring the way Castiel closes his eyes with a painful wince, he brings the other male’s fingers up to slide over the rough material of the patch that still covers the left side of his forehead.

“I need you to save me, Cas,” he murmurs solemnly, and dammit, he can feel his own voice failing him, the lump in his throat almost choking the words on their way out. “Just one more time…”

“I can’t,” Cas grates, his eyes still tightly closed, as if the very sight of Dean’s face would render him blind.

“Yes you can,” Dean prompts firmly, but Castiel just shakes his head.

“No… No, Dean, please, I’m not—“

“You _are_ ,” Dean interrupts him firmly before he can get any further. “I know you are.”

He says it like a promise, and Castiel lets out something that sounds like a mix between a sob and a sigh as the hand against Dean’s face slips and falls down to his neck. His fingers squeeze, rubbing hard against the skin as if Dean’s the one in need of comfort instead of the other way around.

Dean’s heart feels like it’s about to punch a hole right through his ribcage, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t push the situation further. Castiel is shaking, his face almost completely hidden beneath unruly wisps of hair while his lips move soundlessly; whispering without sound as if he’s praying, and Dean waits.

Minutes pass. Seconds, hours, years, and then, finally, the hand on Dean’s shoulder shifts. The pressure eases up, but doesn’t waver, and Dean resists the urge to let out a sigh when it moves back up to cup the side of his face. Castiel’s other hand, slow and hesitant, brushes against his arm before coming up to mimic the one on the left, fingers resting lightly against his jaw. There’s a brief silence; a moment where time seems to stand still, and the very atoms in the air slows to a halt when Castiel’s lips finally press against his, blunt and inexperienced, but honest and oh, so sweet.

The kiss is chaste, and it doesn’t last long, but it leaves Dean’s head spinning to the point that when Castiel pulls away, Dean’s own hand shoots up to catch him around the neck. He holds him there, pressing their foreheads tightly together while he battles against the tight clench in his chest, his breathing rough and labored as if he just ran a mile. Castiel’s skin is warm against his hand, and he can feel the tremble of the other’s body travel through him where they sit hunched together on the bed, their fingers clutching desperately to ground themselves in the violent current that fills the air between them.

“Dean…” Castiel starts, his voice thick and messy.

“I know,” Dean whispers. “I know, it’s okay. It’s all okay…”

Castiel makes a sound as if he’s going to say something else, but Dean doesn’t want to hear it. He leans in and steals the words from his lips before they’re even formed right, and the quiet gasp of surprise the action earns him in return is the best reward he could have ever asked for.

They kiss, slow and unhurried. Castiel’s movements are clumsy at first, as if he’s not sure whether or not he’s allowed to kiss back. He picks up quickly, however, and Dean can’t help the sigh he breathes into the other’s mouth when Castiel’s lips begins to move against his in reciprocation.

They kiss until Castiel’s hand leaves Dean’s face to support his weight on the mattress as they slump further and further down, until Dean is basically flat on his back with Castiel hovering inches above him. Dean quickly makes up for the loss of contact by bringing his still free hand up to rest gently on the former angel’s lower back. He doesn’t push, and he doesn’t pull, he simply holds, guiding slowly and carefully in order to let Cas know that it’s okay. That _they’re_ okay, just like this.

They kiss for what could be hours, yet when they pull apart for air it still feels like it’s over far too soon. It’s not until Dean feels Castiel’s fingers slip down to the front of his shirt that the first flare of _want_ courses through his body, and he gasps, startled due to the fact that he had not expected the sensation to be so powerful, this soon.

Castiel freezes, for a split second holding completely still. Then the fingers resume their path downwards until they brush against the tiny sliver of exposed skin on Dean’s stomach where his t-shirt has ridden up. The touch alone is enough to cause Dean’s entire body to spasm, sending another startled gasp pushing against Castiel’s mouth. The hand stays where it is, resting harmlessly between Dean’s hip and ribs, but the touch is like fire; icy tendrils of need spreading from the tip of Castiel’s fingers across Dean’s skin. It’s powerful enough to have him shaking with it after on only a few seconds, and he quickly finds that it takes all the discipline he has not to roll his hips forward to seek the alluring friction of the other’s body.

Every now and then Castiel’s thumb makes a slow swipe back and forth over his skin as they kiss, and every time it does Dean struggles to bite back the moans that threaten to leave his mouth. So far Castiel himself has not made a sound, nothing besides the breathy little noises from their kisses, and Dean doesn’t want to be the one to cross the line, not wanting to take things too far, too fast. He’s going to let Castiel set the pace. Should that mean that this is as far as they will go for the day, or the week, or the month even, then so be it. He’s handing the reins over and surrendering himself to Castiel, like he always has, and he makes sure to let every ounce of his trust show in the kisses he presses against the former angel’s lips. Makes sure the other _knows_.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t take long with that single hand on his body and the heat of those kisses on his lips to render the heat pumping through his veins close to unbearable. Only five minutes later Dean seriously begins to second guess his ability to keep his building arousal under control. He doesn’t want to tell Cas to stop; scared that if he does, the other will misunderstand and pull away completely, but if they keep this up, the situation will undoubtedly end up even more awkward, and that very soon.

He’s still contemplating the best way to get his message across when Cas’ hand slips and slides up to press against the band aid covering the stitches on his stomach. Dean breaks away from the kiss with a hoarse yelp, the sudden pain flashing through him taking him by surprise. Castiel pulls back with a gasp, and Dean is thoroughly convinced that he’s going to leave, that the mood is now ruined beyond repair. He launches forward, almost sitting up, and grabs Castiel by the wrist, halting him before he gets the chance to pull back even further.

Their eyes meet in a clash of suffocating silence, and Dean notices the flush on Cas’s cheeks, the evident rising and falling of his chest, the dilation of his pupils… Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Like a hurricane trapped inside a glass bottle, even without his grace. So wild and impossible; a walking, talking contradiction all by his own, and Dean wants him so badly he can barely breathe.

His heart trembles as he pulls the hand gently, slowly guiding Cas to lie back on top of him, and after some initial hesitation, Castiel follows.

They sink down, Dean on his back with Castiel’s weight settled over his uninjured side. With one hand holding Castiel’s hand tight against his chest, Dean lets his other one reach up to urge the other man down for a new kiss. Even though he can still feel the tension in Castiel’s body, he’s relieved when Cas doesn’t protest.

The fire’s still there, subdued for the time being, but still powerful enough to make Dean close his eyes when their lips meet. Castiel makes another one of those undefinable noises, and his fingers clutch at the front of Dean’s t-shirt, but he’s not moving any closer; almost using the grip on Dean’s clothes as a way to maintain his distance. Dean swipes his thumb over the soft skin of Castiel’s wrist, and he’s taken by surprise to find that the pulse beneath the surface is racing; beating against the digit so hard it feels like it’s coming from a second heartbeat.

“Hey…” He pushes his nose against Castiel’s cheek as he speaks against his mouth. “What’s wrong? Is this— Is it too fast?”

“No…” Cas shakes his head, his voice an almost inaudible whisper as his lips move against Dean’s own. “No, it’s… Dean, I—”

The fingers in Dean’s shirt tightens even further. There’s a desperation in Cas’ voice that stirs Dean’s insides, and his eyes widen when he realizes that it’s not bewilderment that causes the other man’s hesitation, nor is it fear.

Castiel used to be an angel; he watched humanity for thousands of years, and Dean had heard it from the former seraph’s own mouth that sex is something angels considers to be a repetitive and somewhat tedious act to witness. Which means that Cas, during his time up in the clouds, probably picked up more knowledge about sexual intercourse than Dean has been able to accumulate during his entire lifetime. Cas knows about where to touch and what happens when you do, he’s not stupid or ignorant. No, the thing that makes him hesitate—the reason to why he’s still clinging to Dean’s clothes rather than his body—is _shame_.

Shame and guilt; feelings Dean knows of all too well. Castiel _wants_ , just like Dean, but in his own head he doesn’t consider himself worthy of it, to touch Dean like this. Cas accuses himself of having done so many things, of bringing so much destruction to the world, that he doesn’t believe himself deserving of love or affection. Dean suspects that even the decision to stay here in the bunker with them is something Castiel feels disgusted by; a luxury his now human soul has grabbed hold and refuses to let go of. Just like his hands are now digging into the fabric of Dean’s shirt; a desperate clench of muscles that isn’t grounded in anything but pure, selfish need, which Castiel hates himself for.

Castiel doesn’t want them to stop, but he’s also too ridden with guilt to allow himself to go any further. The thought makes Dean’s heart ache, to think that Cas won’t allow himself the pleasure of this new thing between them due to his own self loathing.

_You don’t think you deserve to be saved…_

Who would have thought, that the tables would eventually turn on them like this?

Dean runs his hand up and through Castiel’s, combing through the strands with his fingers at the same time as he presses them down to coax Cas’s head to rest against the nape of his neck. He holds him there, fingers still moving while he whispers that it’s okay, that it’s fine, that everything’s fine.

At first Castiel tries to sit back up, tries to interrupt him, but Dean doesn’t allow it. He continues to talk, trying to keep his voice steady when the holds on his tongue finally loosens, allowing himself to finally give a voice to all the things he’s tried so long to convince himself wouldn’t really make a difference to say.

He talks, he has no idea for how long. He feels Castiel’s body stiffen when he starts to apologize for all the times he never told the angel thank you; promises that he never took him for granted, that he always considered Castiel as a part of their family...

He assures him that he has nothing to feel bad for, that none of them are angry with him. He tells Castiel how sorry he is that his wings are gone. Tells him how he can’t even begin to understand how it must feel to suddenly lose everything like that.

He ignores the wet stains of warm tears against his collar when he explains how he wishes that he could help. That he would be willing to give anything if it would somehow grant him a way to ease Castiel’s pain, and he closes his eyes against the choked out whimper that rises up inside the other man’s throat when he whispers the three words he knows Castiel must hear in order to believe him.

He whispers them, over and over, until he’s sure that they’re seared into the former angel’s brain forever. It’s not the word ‘need’ that crosses his lips this time; that shield finally thrown aside. It’s ‘love’, and ‘want’, and ‘trust’, and he says them the way he means them, even though they make Castiel shake violently in his arms. When he’s done, when the last whispered ‘I _love_ you’ has left his mouth, he presses his face against the side of Castiel’s head, and lets him cry.

There are words in there, hidden amongst the sobs and the gasps, but Dean is only capable of making out the fractured fragments of his own name. He continues to thread his fingers through Castiel’s hair, attempting to soothe him, but he doesn’t say anything else. He has no more words to give now; it’s all right there, splayed out at Castiel’s mercy to do with whatever he pleases, and all that’s left for Dean to do now, is wait.

Eventually, the quivers of Castiel’s shoulders stills beneath the palms of his hands, and shortly after that, even the sound of Castiel’s ragged breathing evens out into a slow rise and fall, the tension in his back finally easing up. Dean continues to card his fingers through dark strands as the room goes quiet once again, and he’s relieved to find that it’s a different kind of silence this time. It’s almost relaxing, and Dean catches himself dozing off where he’s lying, the effects of the painkillers he took earlier taking their toll on him as his eyes loses themselves in the ceiling above their heads. The minutes tick by slowly, and he’s literally balancing on the edge between sleep and wakefulness when Castiel suddenly moves.

Dean doesn’t get much time to react before the other is pressing his mouth against his, hard and insistent, and it takes him by such surprise that he’s gasping for air and struggling to sit back up before he even knows what’s going on. Castiel holds him down, keeps him from moving further using the resolve of his lips alone. When he places a hand on Dean’s shoulder to push, Dean practically melts back down onto the bed as helplessly as a chunk of butter in a frying pan.

There’s a hunger in the way Castiel presses in against his side this time, something new in the taste of his kisses. When Cas’s hand find the hem of Dean’s shirt once more, the determination in the movement makes Dean shudder; anticipation and nervousness rushing down to coil hot and cold in his stomach when Castiel tugs the fabric up higher to reveal the bruised and taped side of his chest.

This time when Castiel pulls back, it’s not to move away. He looks at the band aid, studies it intently for almost a full minute before he leans down and presses a single, tender kiss against the edge of the patch, which sets every nerve in Dean’s body on fire. Castiel shifts his bodyweight, settling himself down on top of Dean’s thigh with one leg on either side of him, repeating the action, this time a little higher. Then he does it again, and again, and again; lining the borders of the covered wound with kisses that burns and soothes all at once as he moves even further up.

He comes dangerously close to mouth at a nipple, and Dean steels himself, waits for the electric touch of lips against the sensitive skin, but it never comes. Instead Castiel scoots down to mouth at the section of his stomach that he hadn’t kissed before. Dean grits his teeth, trying to hold back, but when Castiel’s lips brush against the inside of his hipbone, he is mortified by the loud moan that suddenly rips itself out of his mouth. Castiel only spares him a brief glance before he kisses him at the same spot again, longer this time. Dean barely manages to register the heavy twitch inside his boxers before the weight of a hand settles over his crotch as well, firm and insistent.

“Fuck…!”

The curse slips out before he can stop it, and he feels Castiel’s lips curve against his skin in something he immediately identifies as a smile. Jesus fuck… He’s just managed to convince himself that things can’t possibly get any hotter when Castiel squeezes him through his jeans, sending his hips into a stuttering fit against the palm of the other’s hand.

“Cas… Cas, wait…” What the fuck is he _saying_? His body is screaming at him to shut the hell up and just go with the flow now that it’s back, and he wishes so bad that he could do just that. But there’s something else; something deep down that he knows he has to ask, if not for Cas then at least for his own morality’s sake.

“Are y—you…” he starts, failing to suppress a stutter. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” He makes a weak gesture to the barely-there space between their bodies. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all aboard, but… if you want to take it slower…?”

“I want you.”

There’s no doubt in Castiel’s voice when he says it, and the tone of it, that absolute _certainty,_ sends something raw and primal rippling up Dean’s spine. He doesn’t know what else to do but nod and breathe out a low ‘okay’. Then he reaches down and clutches around Castiel’s shoulder, yanking him back up by the t-shirt to kiss him like he has been longing to kiss him for what feels like ages.

Cas thigh presses up against him when Dean’s pull forces him to adjust his balance, and Dean buries his sharp gasp in the space between their lips, pelvis rolling up on pure reflex against Castiel’s leg.

The sheer exhilaration that hits him square in the gut when Castiel moans back is nothing short of euphoric. It makes the hair on his arms stand up and causes every nerve ending in his body to snap into violent attention. He presses his hand against Castiel’s lower back, pushing him down at the same time as he brings his own leg up to return the favor, and in turn the sound of Castiel’s unrestricted groan rips canyon-deep shreds into his self control.

He lets both of his hands fall down to settle on the slope of Castiel’s ass at the same time as he rocks up, braving a little more pressure. A little more force as he urges Cas to move with him. The hardness that pushes against the ridge of his thigh when he does is unmistakably familiar at the same time as it’s indisputably, and gut wrenchingly new. A bright flash of self awareness informs him that he’s currently grinding himself against a member of the human race that has a dick, and that two dicks in an equation of two people is something that should terrify him, but he ignores it. He had expected that such thoughts would make an appearance sooner or later.

He’s not, however, expecting Castiel to bury his face against the slope of his neck with a startled cry when Dean’s newfound determination makes him rock their bodies together harder than before. Castiel’s pelvis immediately stutters down to push against Dean’s leg in a motion so uncontrolled and instinctive it leaves a sharp burn around Dean’s neck when the other’s fingers tighten and pulls around the collar of his shirt. He hears Castiel’s cry morph into a strangled whimper that beats, warm and moist against his skin, and then Castiel is rubbing himself against his thigh so hard Dean has to fight to keep it from being pushed back down against the mattress again.

He doesn’t have to move—hell, even if he were to try there was no way he’d ever be able to get the rhythm right anyway. Not with Cas thrusting against him the way he is; all frantic breaths and primal urges. Fuck, Dean had no idea desperation could ever be this hot.

His own hips bucks whenever Castiel’s body manages to grind against him in that just-right way that makes stars dance across his vision, and every one of Dean’s—in his own opinion, rather disoriented actions—is received by another one of those delicious gasps that makes the blood in his veins boil hot.

God, he feels like he’s about to catch fire and burn from the inside out. There’s a tingle at the base of his spine that keeps bursting and sparking like fireworks every time their bodies pushes together, and he’s fairly certain that if they don’t stop—if they don’t at least _slow down_ —then this will all be over before they even get started.

Suddenly Castiel’s leg shifts, pushing his body higher. Dean throws his head back when he feels their erections slot up against each other, the length of his own arousal pushing hard against the rough fabric of his jeans. The pleasure however, gets instantly overshadowed by pain when the top of his skull connects with the hard concrete of the wall behind him, forcefully reminding him that they’re still lying awkwardly sprawled across the center of the bed. He drags himself up, supporting his weight on one of his elbows with a low hiss.

“Hey, hey, hold up…” He pushes at Castiel’s shoulders, trying to get his attention, but Cas just burrows his head against the side of his neck. Dean sucks in a sharp breath when he feels the tip of a wet tongue ghost against the lobe of his ear.

“Cas…! Cas, we gotta— _Shit_ …” He pushes even harder, and this time Castiel leans off of him with a disapproving noise that Dean decides would be very, very dangerous to pay attention to.

“Turn around,” he says instead, tugging at Castiel’s shirt to show him what he means as he does his best to wiggle into a more comfortable position. He shoves at Castiel’s shoulder again, jostling their bodies to lie along the length of the mattress rather than across it. Castiel doesn’t appear very enthusiastic about stopping what they had been doing, but he still follows obediently. Once Dean is turned the right way he closes the remaining space between them on all fours, but when he moves to lie down on top of him again, Dean stops him. Castiel’s eyebrows pulls together into a disapproving frown as he looks down upon the five fingers suddenly splayed across his chest.

“Not so fast,” Dean smiles, motioning towards the pillows at the top of the bed.

“On your back,” he instructs, and Castiel complies, yet still with that impatient crease on his brow. The sight of it makes Dean smile wider, and he leans down to press his lips against Cas’s forehead—perhaps in an attempt to shoo that scornful expression away, who knows—at the same time as he straddles the other male’s thighs. When he pulls back again Castiel is looking up at him with a face of pure, quizzical awe, and something wild and untamed flutters inside Dean’s stomach, his hand coming up to rub across his neck in a fit of abashment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he scolds, fighting the heat that threatens to rise to his cheeks. He clears his throat and lets his hand drop down to smooth across the ridge of the other’s hip bone, attempting to distract himself from the embarrassment he feels. Castiel’s eyelids slides shut at the touch, and his mouth bites back a gasp when Dean moves the hand higher, pushing up and underneath the hem of the washed out fabric of his t-shirt, dragging the pads of his fingers across the taut skin of Castiel’s stomach.

Dean swallows. It’s difficult, incredibly so, and his tongue sticks to the dry roof of his mouth as he watches Castiel clamp down on his lower lip with his teeth, stifling a whimper when Dean’s fingers brushes against his nipples. Cas’ own fingers dig into the covers like talons the moment Dean grazes against them, breathing heavily through his nose as Dean lets each finger catch on the perky edges in a light tease before smoothing his hands down Castiel’s ribs to start the exploration all over again. Dean can feel the heavy thumps of a heartbeat thunder against his palms as he comes back up, a furious staccato that makes his arms tremble. When he braves a light pinch to one of the hard nubs he’s pleased to see the abs beneath Cas’ skin tense and jump in response.

“You like that?” he asks, making sure it doesn’t come out like teasing, and Cas answers with an eager nod and a hoarse moan when Dean does it again. Castiel’s hips grinds up, but there’s too much space between them to earn him any sort of friction, and he lets out a low growl of frustration. His fingers wrap around Dean’s wrists, pulling his hands down, but Dean twists out of the grip easily before they even make it past Castiel’s hips.

“You’re moving too fast,” he says, ignoring the way Castiel glares at him as he leans down and places a slow, languid kiss on the ex angel’s stomach. He hears Cas suck in a sharp breath above his head as he mouths his way up across the ribs, pushing the t-shirt higher to bunch under Castiel’s armpits. He licks at a hard nipple, biting down over it loosely with this teeth while he lets the thumb of his other hand circle the other slowly.

Once again Castiel bucks his hips, groaning when his silent plea for attention is left unanswered for a second time. Dean quickly reaches the conclusion that he really, _really_ likes that reaction, and he makes sure to take his time as he continues his work on Castiel’s chest. Castiel is a trembling, panting, writhing mess by the time Dean finally decides to leave the area in favor of moving further up, kissing Cas’s neck and placing nibbles and love bites all the way up to his ear where he stops to suckle lazily at the lobe. Castiel’s breathing picks up at that, and when Dean brings his hand up to fist loosely in the hair on top of Castiel’s head, leisurely pulling at it, Castiel lets out a deep moan that rumbles through Dean’s chest like thunder.

Dean lets his nails scratch bluntly against the other’s scalp, all the way down to the short hairs on the back of Castiel’s neck, earning him a delicious gasp and a full-body shiver. Then he proceeds to lick a hot, messy trail down the length of the other’s jaw line; the ragged sounds of Castiel’s moans and pants making his stomach clench in pure exhilaration.

When his mouth reaches Castiel’s lips anew, he lets his hand drop to rub lightly on the outside of Cas’s sweatpants, kissing him at the same time, making Castiel shove and moan against his hand and mouth as if the loss of contact would kill him. Dean takes the opportunity to grab around the hard length pressing against his palm through the fabric, tracing the edges of it with his fingers in a loose fist, and this time it’s Castiel who throws his head back, a string of saliva connecting their lips when he opens his mouth in a breathless cry.

Dean only allows him a few seconds of relief before he moves his hand away to clutch around a cotton clad thigh instead, massaging the tense muscles and slipping his hand underneath Cas’ body to grope at his ass. Cas jolts when three of Dean’s fingers digs into the firm flesh of his buttocks, and he tries to shift, tilting his hips to make Dean return the attention to his crotch and the erection that’s tenting through his trousers.

When Dean doesn’t move, he lets go of the sheets in order to perform the task himself. He doesn’t get far before Dean’s fingers clutch around his wrist and stops him. It’s probably a good thing Cas no longer has any supernatural strength, because otherwise Dean would probably have ended up with his face pushed into the mattress before he could even say ‘cherry pie’. At the moment, however, Castiel is too far gone to even dislodge Dean from his seat over his legs, and a breathy little whine punches out of his lungs when Dean drags his captured hand back up to press it firmly into the pillow next to his head.

“What did I tell you about moving too fast?” Dean scolds calmly, trying his best to keep the pleased grin from being heard in his voice. He’s half surprised, half incredibly turned on when Castiel’s response is to actually _growl_ at him.

“Patience,” Dean cooes, and Castiel’s lip pulls up in a low snarl

“I don’t want to be patient,” he hisses, “I want you to _touch_ me…!”

Dean stops and looks down at the face below him, takes in the heated flush of those cheeks and the close to feverish glace in those blue eyes. Castiel truly looks as if he’s on the verge of losing it at any given moment, and for a moment the sadistic side of Dean’s sexuality toys with the thought of dragging this out for even longer than he already has. He decides not to. After all, such activities could wait for another time. Right now he wants to see that normally blank face overcome by all the pleasure and need Dean can possibly coax out of him. He wants to ease the weight of the world from Castiel’s shoulders, if only for a moment; wants to soothe and heal with his fingers, lips and tongue until the other can’t bear to even stand it anymore.

He lets go of Castiel’s hand, making sure that the other doesn’t try to move it before releasing it completely. Dragging his own hands down the frame of Castiel’s body, he then stops at the hem of Castiel’s sweatpants, and Cas’s eyes widens when Dean slowly begins to pull them down. There’s a brief moment of resistance as the elastic band stretches as far as it will go, and then the thick sound of skin on skin is heard as Castiel’s erection comes free from the garment to slap up hard against his stomach with a relieved gasp from Castiel’s lips. Dean takes a few seconds for himself to trace the rigid organ with his eyes, making sure to take in the slightly curved shape of it, the flushed red color of the skin. When his gaze finally lands on the clear shine of liquid that’s smeared out over the tip, something just below his navel clenches so hard he almost loses his balance for a second.

He reaches out and lets the tip of his index finger slide feathery light along the flesh before him, trying his best not to linger on the way his own hand shakes as he does so. He finds the skin smooth and silky beneath his touch, the heat of it so intense it feels like it’s burning him. Cas whimpers and buries the side of his face in the pillow, his entire body twitching when Dean moves the finger up and down, slowly, over and over. Dean cups Cas’s testicles gently with his free hand, rolling them in his palm as he leans down to kiss and lavish at whatever spots of the other’s torso that he can reach. He stays that way, just holding and tracing until there’s a thick shine of precome glistening on Castiel’s stomach, and the other man is nothing short of an incoherent mess. That’s when he finally moves his hand up to close around the other’s erection in a loose fist and starts to pump.

Castiel’s hands shoot up to grapple at the front of Dean’s shirt, his eyes snapping open and his stomach clenching so hard he almost sits straight up from the sheer force of it. He tries to say something, but Dean kisses him before there’s any time, continuing to jack him off, just as slowly and methodically as he has been doing everything else. Castiel writhes with it, moaning and panting nonsense against the seam of their lips, groaning whenever Dean alters the pace to deliberately throw him off rhythm, and Dean’s blood burns so hot he feels like it’s turned to liquid fire in his veins.

He so wrapped up in the many different sounds and reactions he’s wringing out of the man beneath him that he completely forgets about the fact that Castiel has two hands of his own. He’s nowhere near prepared when he suddenly feels one of them reach out to splay over the bulge in his own jeans, rubbing against his erection with such unschooled insistency it makes the breath catch in his throat.

“You too…” Cas groans. “Dean, please, let me…”

He pops the top button of the jeans without even waiting for permission and yanks the zipper down, tugging greedily at the denim until both jeans and boxers are pulled down low enough to let Dean’s cock spring free. The cool air that rushes over his heated skin when it does makes Dean’s hiss, but Castiel doesn’t waste any time. His fingers close around Dean’s member with a determination that sends chills up Dean’s spine, and when Castiel starts to move his hand over him Dean finds that he literally has to brace himself against the mattress in order not to topple over.

Cas’ strokes are far rougher than the relaxed, unhurried pace Dean usually uses when he’s entertaining himself, and the frantic pace catches him off guard, leaving his entire body shaking. After only a few seconds he feels his arm give out from underneath him, and he sags down onto his elbow with a ragged groan, the movement forcing him to let go of Castiel’s body completely in order to support his own weight. It’s too fast; that’s all he can think off as Castiel’s fingers slide hard over the head of his cock;  it’s too fast, too much, Jesus Christ, he can’t handle it, it’s—

“Jesus!” He flinches when he feels the tip of his cock rub against Cas’s stomach, and he struggles to regain his balance, shoving against Castiel’s wrist to make him stop.

“Shit, slow down… Slow down, you can’t—  I’m not—” He bites the last piece of the sentence off at the same time as he rips Castiel’s hand away from him, fighting to hold back the white noise rushing up his spine, keeping his eyes tightly screwed shut. He succeeds, even if just barely. Once he’s sure that he’s capable of breathing again without risking blowing his load all over them both, he opens his eyes, releasing a strung out rush of air.

“What the hell, man… You trying to embarrass me?” he grates. He knows that the glare he’s trying to perform probably doesn’t look anywhere near scolding since Castiel’s dick only makes an excited twitch when he looks up to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says under his breath, but the remorse in his voice does nothing to cover the heated gleam in his eyes. “May I try again?”

“Dude, you don’t have to ask…” Dean huffs with an exaggerated eyeroll. “Just give me a sec.” He moves to the right and lies down next to Castiel on the bed. Making sure not to disturb the stitches as he turns on his uninjured side, he grabs hold of Cas’ hip, tugging at it to urge the other into turning towards him too.

“You have to be more careful,” he murmurs at the same time as he reaches out to pump Castiel’s erection slowly. “Gentle, but controlled.” He tightens his grip, showing Cas what he means, and Castiel’s eyes instantly roll back into his head as he groans, melting into the touch. Castiel’s hand grapples against Dean’s arm, and Dean edges closer, sighing when Cas lets the hand drop to touch him too. He is indeed more careful this time, and Dean’s entire body shudders with pleasure when the new, slower strokes ripple through his senses.

“Mm yeah, just like that…” he praises, “Keep going… A bit harder… Like this, watch me…”

Castiel mimics the movements of Dean’s hand obediently, swiping his thumb over the head at the same time as Dean does the same to him, and whenever Dean tightens his grip, so does Cas. They alter between stroking each other fast and stroking slow, changing the angles of their wrists to give them more space. It doesn’t take long before the air is filled with the sound of their rapid breaths, the slick sound of skin moving against skin, and the low creaking of bedsprings.

They slowly end up moving closer to each other, and soon they are kissing again, panting and groaning, breathing each other in as their bodies struggle to remain still. Dean feels Castiel’s leg nudge against his knee, and he momentarily lets Cas go in order to pull the limb up high enough to drape over his thigh. When he reaches down to grab hold of Castiel’s sweatpants to pull the other closer, Castiel moans and hooks his ankle around the curve of Dean’s knee in return. By now they’re so close their hands keep bumping into each other in the narrow space between their bodies, and it’s so hot, so incredibly hot.

Dean nearly chokes on his own breath when Castiel suddenly drags himself in even closer, and the slick touch of Castiel’s cock slotting up and rubbing along the head of his own makes him curse under his breath. Every muscle in his body clenches and unclenches uncontrollably, and he’s sweating, the light sheen making his skin slick, causing Castiel’s other hand to slip and slide when it tries to latch onto his neck. They’re both shaking now, and Dean moans when his hips jerk forward, their irregular movement sending the hard shape of his cock sliding into the tunnel of Castiel’s trembling fingers and _fuck, Jesus_ —

“Cas…” he breathes. “Cas, you close?” He moans, feeling the impending orgasm boil just beneath his skin, but Castiel doesn’t even seem to have heard him. His eyes are locked, half lidded and dazed, onto the place where Dean is disappearing between his fingers, from the looks of it completely mesmerized by the sight.

“I can’t hold back,” Dean gulps, desperately trying to puzzle together a warning. “If you’re not there yet... Cas, for God’s sake—”

Castiel blinks, a slow, stunned bat of his eyelids before his gaze slides up to settle, wide eyed and disoriented on Dean’s own. It’s a look that makes Dean’s gut feels as if it’s going to curl in on itself and implode with the force of a supernova at any given moment.

“Dean…” Cas’ voice is just above a whimper, but there’s a razor’s edge of amazement to it; an awestruck bewilderment that hits Dean like a sledgehammer to the chest and he’s coming, can feel the climax rise inside him, the hot cold of it rushing up his spine and he can’t stop it…! Lord help him, he can’t _stop it…!_

“Cas…!” he gasps, “Cas, I’m gonna— Oh fuck… Oh _fuck_ —”

In his fantasies, he’s always imagined there to be some sort of sound at that moment. Perhaps a distant roll of thunder or clash of lightning. Instead the sound that reaches his ears when Castiel orgasms is purely and utterly human in a way that’s more mind-blowingly erotic than anything else he could possibly have been able to dream up on his own. He registers the strangled sound of his name as it’s ripped apart by a loud groan, and he feels the warm flow of the other man’s release cover his fingers just a split second before his own climax pulls him under; drowning the rest of the world out in a haze of blinding, white light.

It’s the sound of Castiel’s heavy breathing that brings him back to the present, after who knows how long. He opens his eyes, tries to focus as much as he can with his heartbeat still shaking his vision, and when his gaze falls on Castiel’s face — open mouthed and dazed,  just a few inches away from his own — he can’t help the lazy grin that creeps across his lips.

“Hey…” he mumbles, the hoarseness of his own voice making him sound like a completely different person. “You okay over there?”

He receives a strung out huff of something that is probably meant to be words, but Dean quickly decides that he doesn’t possess the linguistic abilities required to decipher them at the moment. Instead he glances down, bracing himself against the mess he knows they now are left with, and he grimaces slightly at the sight, pinching his now ruined t-shirt between the tips of his fingers. Surprisingly enough, Castiel’s shirt is basically spotless, seeing as it was still hiked up all the way to his armpits, but Dean’s own attire had unfortunately not made such a clean escape.

It takes some wiggling, but he manages to pull his t-shirt over his head without smearing the spunk all over his face in the process. After that he uses it to clean them both up as good as he can, marvelling over how incredibly fucking messy things had gotten. Cas snorts out something that sounds like a drunken chuckle when Dean rubs the garment over his stomach, and Dean makes a mental note to investigate the reason behind that noise more thoroughly in a very near future. At the moment, however, he settles with tossing the soiled shirt on the floor along with his jeans when he’s done, and then he quickly maneuvers both himself and Castiel down beneath the rumpled covers, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man’s waist from behind to prevent any form of escape.

“I thought you wanted me to eat something?” Castiel asks him halfheartedly at the same time as he contradicts his own statement by pushing his back closer to Dean’s chest.

“Later,” Dean mumbles, kissing the slope of his neck. “I’ll cook you whatever you want when Sam gets back… Whenever that is.”

“Sam’s not home?”

“Sam’s probably halfway to China by now,” Dean chuckles and adds: “We weren’t exactly _quiet_...”

“Oh…” Castiel breathes, his voice sounding as if he’s trying to figure out if he should be apologetic or amused.

“Yeah, he probably whooped the air and gave himself a pat on the shoulder before he left,” Dean mutters before leaning in to kiss Cas’ neck again, almost absentmindedly. “He’s going to be insufferable from now on.”

“For some reason you don’t sound too upset about that?” Castiel points out. Dean huffs.

“There’s nothing to worry about. He’ll stop being smug once he figures out the variety of furniture we’ll be having sex on around here.”

A giddy flutter rises in his chest when he hears Castiel snorts out a laugh at that.

“I can only assume that you already have a specific set of furniture in mind?”

Dean laughs as he nuzzles an exaggerated purr of approval against Castiel’s ear with a grin.

“Just give me a few minutes,” he offers huskily, only half joking. “If we’re lucky we might have time to take the kitchen table out for a spin before he gets back.”

“That sounds very promising,” Castiel agrees, and Dean is more than ridiculously pleased to hear the little tell-tale sound of a promise in the other man’s voice.

They fall silent. Dean realizes that he has no idea what time it is, but he also concludes about two seconds later that he doesn’t really care. Castiel’s still clothed body is warm against his, and the muffled sound of their joined breathing soon lulls him into a light slumber, his thoughts drifting through the haze inside his head as he tries to wrap his head around what the hell just happened.

He knows that he should be freaking out, but he decides that at the moment he is far too comfortable and way too tired to care about what his inner, steadily shrinking homophobe has to say about it all. For the first time in a very, very long time he feels _at peace,_ and he has every intention in the world to stay this way for as long as he possibly can. Even if that means that his brother might come home to find them just like this; tangled together in Castiel’s bed with Dean’s come-stained shirt lying next to them on the floor. God, Sam will never let him hear the end of it...

“Dean…?”

Dean sucks in a breath, startled back to reality from the low sound of Castiel’s voice.

“Yeah…?” he croaks, stifling a yawn against the smooth plane of the other’s back. He feels Castiel’s ribs expand beneath the weight of his arm as the other takes a deep breath, holds it, and then lets it out.

“I love you too.”

Castiel says it quickly, as if he’s not sure if he’s allowed to mention those three specific words Dean had spoken earlier at all. Dean waits, but when nothing else comes he carefully lifts himself up and rolls Cas over on his back with a gentle tug to his shoulder. Then he leans down and kisses him, long and in earnest. He lets his hand come up to stroke gently along a stubbled jawline, and when he pulls away again he presses his forehead lightly against Castiel’s own with a sigh.

“I know,” he confesses. “I’ve known for a long time and I’ve wanted to—” He swallows, letting his nose bump against Castiel’s for a moment to gather his voice enough to continue. “I’ve wanted to tell you that I feel the same... Hell, I’ve been feeling the same since forever, but I haven’t—”

“Dean.”

Dean opens his eyes when Castiel chuckles his name, but he’s not given much time to react before he gets a firm kiss planted right on top of his lips. He blinks, momentarily taken aback, but Castiel just smiles against his mouth and kisses him again.

“You _have_ told me,” he whispers. “So many times... I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. I _know_ , Dean.”

Dean chuckles, out of relief or surprise, he cannot say, and Castiel drapes an arm around his neck, pulling him down to lie back onto the mattress. Dean obediently allows Cas to rearrange their bodies until they are lying facing each other again, sharing Castiel’s pillow between them. He smiles when he feels Castiel’s nose nuzzle into the crook of his neck at the same time as a hand guides his arm to drape across the shorter man’s midsection.

A while later, when both of them are finally settled comfortably beneath the covers — after some initial kicking and hushed arguing over who has the most right to the covers — Dean strokes his thumb down the length of Castiel’s clothed spine, pressing his lips against the top of Castiel’s head.

“Hey, Cas…” he mumbles.

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel answers dutifully, his voice muffled against Dean’s clavicle, and Dean clears his throat, licking his lips.

“I love you.”

The words come out easier than he thought they would when said out loud like that. His tongue bends and shapes itself around the vowels surprisingly effortlessly, and he feels Castiel’s lips twitch against his neck when the last word leaves his lips.

“I know,” Cas whispers softly, burrowing closer to Dean’s chest with a content sigh. “I need you too.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ^^ Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it <3  
> Have a great day!


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